


La Bikina

by WolfjawsWriter



Series: ¡Viva México, C*brones! [2]
Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: F/M, Inspired by Music, La Bikina - Ruben Fuentes, Mexican AU, The Revolutionary War, guitarist!skull, i don't think I can ever write something this short, la bikina, mentions of locklyle, skullyle - Freeform, this is the shortest one shot I have ever written I really hope its good, widow!Lucy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:47:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21514015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfjawsWriter/pseuds/WolfjawsWriter
Summary: "La Bikina, has grief and painLa Bikina, does not know to loveHaughty, beautiful and proudShe does not allow the want of comfortThey say someone already came and leftThey say she spends her nights crying for him" -Ruben Fuentes, Compositor (Translated)Happy 20th November! Revolution Day!
Relationships: Lucy Carlyle/Anthony Lockwood, Lucy Carlyle/The Skull
Series: ¡Viva México, C*brones! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1532729
Kudos: 3





	La Bikina

The nights were always cold now. The moon was always dull and sickly pale. The chirping of the sunset and evening birds was melody-less and painful to hear.

Every night and day that had passed from the last months had been the exact same; listless motions made from routinely actions, empty words spoken into numb conversations, sad memories remembered in the painful hours of early morning, right before the frigid sun came out from behind the high mountains in the horizon that lined the city’s countryside.

Standing alone on the balcony just outside her room, Lucy stared distractedly before her into the nothingness of the starless sky and full moon that shone that night. The steel rail of the terrace was cold under her hands, biting onto her skin as the minutes droned on in silence, her mind too full of the torturing thoughts that prevented her from feeling the crisp of the metal. Each night that passed she would come out there and stare away as her mind went over the exact same questions that haunted her heart and tormented her being.

Why? Why must it have happened? Did it have to happen? Was it really the only way things could have gone? Would there have been a way to save him?

She sighed heavily, blinking a desolate tear down her cheek. The Revolutionary War, raging in the barren lands of the country, took victims upon victims, sacrifice upon sacrifice, lives upon lives, this she knew. She knew it all too well and it broke her soul. Shattered her mind and distressed her heart to no end to go over the same riddle again and again and find that it couldn’t be answered no matter how hard she tried or how many ways she looked into it.

The memory of the moments of its very beginnings, bright on her conscience and vital in her heart, replayed inside her every day, the sound of the eager promises made clear as if they were talking right on her ear, the light of the day flashing with the warm summer sun and the hope in her heart, the feeling of her hands held before her by those of he who she had devoted her soul to - he who had given her all the right reasons to support the cause of the war, he who had brought her out of the misery of the prison she once called home to welcome her into his, he who committed his life to hers before an altar - now gone.

Her quiet sobs drove her eyes closed. Her shoulders hunched over when she brought her hands up to cover her face. Her black skirt billowed with the cooling breeze that sneaked around her shoulders, carrying her laments down to the alley under her balcony. Tears still spilled down her cheeks, which she dabbed softly with an old handkerchief, sobbing quietly before the melodic sound of a guitar reached her ears, her brows furrowing as she looked over the railing.

From the cobblestone ground below her, covered by the shadow of the tall building before her house, a man leant back against the bricked wall and looked up at the heavens from beneath his wide black hat, clad in a black uniform with rose red trimmings that ran down the sides of his arms and legs and the borders of his vest. He held a thick, large guitar in his hands, resting it against his chest and stomach as his eyes looked up to the weeping girl. With his fingers pressed against the guitar’s cords on the end of the neck, the other hand over the body’s hole, he swung his fingers over the strings, playing a gentle tune.

He had been there many times before; in that alley, during the nights, in front of the balcony, under the shadow of the two houses and only a call away. And every time he was there she would grieve. Never had her attention flickered away from the aching pain she mourned, never had her beautiful eyes drifted down from the endless vault of the sky to grace him. Never did she left the agonizing grief that consumed her alive. But that changed tonight.

Playing more lively, he smirked up at her, the vine green of his eyes glinting dazzlingly from within the shadows he stood in, her heart abruptly beating swiftly when, with a voice rich as the most perfect chocolate and deep like a water well, he began to sing;

“ _Solitaria, camina la bikina y la gente se pone a murmurar, dicen que tiene una pena, dicen que tiene una pena, que la hace llorar…_ ” the words drifted in the air and into her ears, the sad yet peppy tone drying the tears that still hadn’t spilled “ _Altanera, preciosa y orgullosa! No permite la quieran consolar; pasa luciendo su real majestad, pasa, camina y nos mira sin vernos jamas!_ ”

His hands seemed to dance over the strings, pressing on one side and scratching over the other, and yet she could see him bring something out from behind the guitar, the music never ceasing to play as he threw the small object at the balcony, easily flying above her head and landing on the floor.

“ _La Bikina, tiene pena y dolor, La Bikina, no conoce el amor. Altarnera, preciosa y orgullosa! No permite la quieran consolar; dicen que alguien ya vino y se fué, dicen que pasa las noches llorando por él!_ ”

Lucy turned around, looking about and finding the small open bud of a rose, red like blood, with small thorns on the stem. She carefully picked it up.

“ _Altanera, preciosa y orgullosa! No permite la quieran consolar; dicen que alguien ya vino y se fué, dicen que pasa las noches llorando por él!_ ”

With the rose in hand, she looked up and approached the railing again, opening her mouth to say something - but he was gone. The music had stopped, without her even noticing. She searched the alley for any signs that he might have changed slightly his position in the night’s shadows, of where he might have gone, but it was empty.

Her eyes drifted down to the small rosebud in her hands, barely bloomed and fresh, a heavenly scent wafting from it. Her eyes watered again, a small tear running down her cheek and dying at the small curve of her smile. She turned her eyes up to the heavens once more, laughing quietly to herself. Suddenly the moon wasn't as dull as it had seemed.

**Author's Note:**

> Translated Lyrics:
> 
> Lonely, walks the Bikina  
> And people start to murmur  
> They say she has a grief  
> They say she has a grief, that makes her cry
> 
> Haughty, beautiful and proud  
> She does not allow the want of comfort  
> Spend wearing your royal majesty  
> Come in, walk and look at us without ever seeing us
> 
> La Bikina, has grief and pain  
> La Bikina, does not know love
> 
> Haughty, beautiful and proud  
> She does not allow the want of comfort  
> They say someone already came and left  
> They say she spends her nights crying for him
> 
> La Bikina, has grief and pain  
> La Bikina, does not know love
> 
> Haughty, beautiful and proud  
> She does not allow the want of comfort  
> They say someone has already come And left  
> They say she spends her nights crying for him


End file.
